


The King of Rock and Roll

by misura



Category: Gattaca (1997)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 05:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Dancing," Vincent says, and there's a certain kind of softness to his expression that is utterly out of place on Jerome's face. "Wines. Those are your passions?"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"Swimming," Jerome says, mostly for completeness's sake.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King of Rock and Roll

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: _Vincent/Jerome, Jerome is a narcissist_

"You're a terrible dancer," Jerome says, scowling - a touch of his annoyance might be with himself, he thinks, for not having expected this.

Then again, Vincent is supposed to be _him_ , and Jerome knows of himself that he is quite an accomplished dancer. Used to be, anyway.

"I know," Vincent says. If he's thinking that a man who is waltzing in a wheelchair has no right to criticize anyone's dancing skills, his expression doesn't give that thought away. Jerome catches himself hoping it's because Vincent isn't considering Jerome's condition, rather than because Vincent is learning to become an even better liar than he already was.

Jerome _needs_ Vincent to be a very good liar. Vincent's affection or finer feelings, on the other hand, he doesn't have any particular use for.

"We're going to have to work on that." They can't actually dance together, of course, even if Jerome would deign to take the woman's part. On the other hand, they can (and will) dance simultaneously, in the same room, hearing the same music.

Vincent's body will never quite look the way Jerome's did, before, but that's only to be expected. _Jerome's_ body will never quite look the way Jerome's did, either. The price one pays for failure.

Jerome doesn't entirely understand Vincent's obsession or dreams, but he understands wanting to go places, wanting to do things, wanting to _be_ the person you know yourself to be, instead of the person everyone else sees when they look at you.

And even if Vincent probably doesn't think of himself as Jerome, one of these days, he's going to. He hasn't got any other choice.

 

Vincent's ignorance is little short of astonishing. Jerome is slightly charmed in spite of himself; he's been raised with certain conceptions of what's important, what sort of knowledge is basic, and here is Vincent, with all of his earnest claims of studying and training and he doesn't know a bloody thing.

Jerome's a lot more annoyed than he is charmed, of course. Even if Vincent had been a fast learner, which he isn't, by virtue of not being Jerome, there's still a lot of ground to cover.

"This isn't a game."

Vincent is still smiling, a little. Jerome doesn't know what about, nor does he particularly care.

"Sorry, it's just ... all a bit silly, isn't it?" Vincent looks earnestly apologetic. Jerome doesn't really buy it; he knows himself to be an excellent liar, and Vincent to be an excellent actor, by necessity.

When your life is shortly going to depend on how well you can play a role, it's either swim or drown. (Jerome found a third option, of course.)

"Wines." Alcohol is one of the few pleasures of Jerome's life, these days, and if he's honest, it's more of an anesthetic than an actual pleasure. It's something to take the edge off, to blur the lines, to feel as close to oblivion as he can get without killing himself. "Wines are serious business."

He drank for pleasure, once. It's a vague memory now, almost like it belongs to another person.

"The way you talk about them," Vincent says.

"Like you talk about the stars," Jerome says, because he can fill in the rest of that sentence, even if it's not true. "Well, we all have our passions, don't we?" Wines aren't Jerome's, but they can be, should be, will be. When Vincent is no longer Vincent, Jerome will know all he needs to know about fine wines, and a little bit extra, because Jerome is only willing to settle for first place.

"Dancing," Vincent says, and there's a certain kind of softness to his expression that is utterly out of place on Jerome's face. "Wines. Those are your passions?"

"Swimming," Jerome says, mostly for completeness's sake. He'll never swim again. He never really enjoyed it very much, at the time - it was always about winning, beating an old time, setting a new record. There was no joy in it; only a sense of accomplishment, if he was lucky. On good days.

There were always more bad days than good ones. It happens, when your best is considered your average, your normal state of being.

"I can swim." There's a hint of _something_ in Vincent's voice. Jerome wonders at it, but not enough to ask. It doesn't really matter, after all; it doesn't concern _Jerome_.

"Good. Now, here's how you can tell a good wine that needs to breathe from a bad wine that's just bad ... "

 

_You're me,_ Jerome can't quite bring himself to tell Vincent - and he couldn't, anyway, not really, because that's the point, isn't it? As long as Vincent is Vincent, he's not Jerome.

_You need to become me, but better. With bigger dreams._

As long as Vincent is Vincent, Jerome is Jerome.

_As long as you're you, I have to be me. And I really, really want to be able to stop doing that._

 

Vincent has never kissed another human being, Jerome can tell. How could he have, being what he is?

Even if babies are hardly ever made the unnatural way anymore these days, people still look for certain things in their sexual partners. Attractiveness. Genetic superiority. Experience, if it's just for a quickie.

Jerome never lacked for interested parties when he bothered looking for them. One glance at him was enough for most people to recognize him for what he was: everything anyone could be wanting.

Vincent, of course, is not just anyone.

He's looking better every day now, even if the scars on his legs will never go away. (They're beautiful, though, those scars. Beautiful in an ugly way.) He's nicely muscled, even if he'll never have Jerome's upper body strength. (He should never need it, unless he lands himself in a wheelchair, too.)

"Can you - " Vincent's face is flushed, and Jerome decides it really is a very good thing they're doing this now, that _Jerome_ is doing this now, because nobody could see that amount of blushing and believe he's not dealing with a complete virgin. "Do you want me to - "

"That would be nice, yes." Jerome knows what to do, which buttons to push. It's hardly exciting anymore, really; there's a certain amount of biological imperative in play (call it a 'sex drive' and be done with it) that lends the experience a sort of satisfaction.

He supposes he should be grateful he's still got that much.

He rather thinks that if anyone should be grateful, it's Vincent, for getting the benefit of Jerome's experience and know-how.

"Not like that. Like _this_."

Vincent makes a sound that fails to fill Jerome with confidence regarding his ability to be learning anything right now. On a positive note - the _only_ positive note, building stamina doesn't really require one to pay attention. It just takes a lot of practice.

Jerome considers scowling, then decides Vincent isn't going to see it anyway.

(He makes sure to stop smiling before he lets himself fall asleep, though.)


End file.
